Chapter 1: Marc
There was no opportunity of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, in the leafless garden at one in the afternoon; but since dinner (Aunt Yule, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.
I was glad: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Agatha, the maid, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Adelaide, Marc, and Jeanette Yule.
The mentioned Adelaide, Marc, and Jeanette were now clustered round their mother in the living-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings around her (at the time neither quarreling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had forbidden from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Agatha, and could discover by her own observation, that I was truthfully watning to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children."
"What did Agatha say I did?" I asked.
"Zoe, I don't like objectioners or questioners; besides, there is something really disturbing about a child talking to her elders in that manner. Go sit somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, Don't talk."
I slipped into the breakfast-room adjoined to the living-room. On the far end, it contained a bookshelf: I was soon engrossed in a volume, making sure that it was the one filled with pictures. I mounted onto the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly closed, I was shrined in double retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the pages of my book, I looked at the aspect of that winter afternoon. In the distance, was a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.
I returned to my book—Pride and Prejudice. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the storis Agatha sometimes read on winter evenings, when she was in a good mood; and when, having brought her ironing-board to the nursery, she allowed us to there, and while ironed Aunt Yule's lace frills, and crimped her nightgown borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads.
With Daisy on my knees, I was happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.
"Boo! Miss Loner!" cried the voice of Marc Yule; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.
"Where the freak is she!" he continued. "Addy! Jenny! (calling to his sisters) Zoe isn't here: tell mom she is run out in the rain—stupid girl!"
"I should open the curtain," I thought to myself; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would Marc Yule be able to find it on his own; he was not quick; but Adelaide just put her head in at the door, and said at once—
"She is in the window-seat, Marc."
I came out immediately, because I trembled at the idea of being dragged out by Marc.
"What do you want?" I asked, sharply.
"Say, 'What do you want, Master Yule?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and sitting down in an arm-chair, he gestured that I was to approach and stand in front him.
Marc Yule was in middle school, fourteen years old; four years older than me: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He stuffed himself like a hungry bum at the table, which made him chubby, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He was supposed to be in school right now; but his mother brought him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Weller, the housekeeper, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and candy sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that Marc's sallowness was owed to over-application and, perhaps, homesickness.
Marc didn't have much affection for his mother and sisters, but a great dislike to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times a week, nor once or twice a day, but continually: every nerve I had, feared him, and every inch of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no chance whatsoever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants didn't want to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Aunt Yule was blind and deaf to the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back.
Obediently, I came up to his chair: he spent about three minutes, sticking out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused at his disgusting and ugly appearance. I wonder if he read the expression on my face; because, instantly, without warning, he struck suddenly and strongly. I staggered back, and on regaining my balance retreated back a step or two from his chair.
"That is for your rude comment to my mother earlier today," he said, "and for hiding behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes ago, you rat!"
Accustomed to Marc Yule's abuse, I never thought of replying; my attention was on how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.
"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.
"I was reading."
"Show me the book."
I returned to the window and brought it to him.
"You have no right to take our books; you are a dependent, mom says; you have no money; your father left you dirt poor; you should be begging, and not living here with rich children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mother's expense. I'll teach you for rummaging in my bookshelves: they are mine; the whole house belongs to me, or will in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of mirrors and windows."
I did as I was told, not aware of his intentions; but when I saw him lift the book and stand up to hurl it, I instinctively stepped aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me. I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.
"You mean and hateful boy!" I screamed. "Are you trying to kill me!?"
"Good heavens" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Adelaide and Jeanette? Should I tell mom? but first—"
He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulders. I saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Adelaide and Jeanette ran to get Aunt Yule, who was upstairs: she came to the scene, followed by Agatha and her maid Eva. We were parted: I heard the words—
"Dear Lord! What possessed you to challenge Master Marc!"
"Did anybody see a picture of such passion!"
Then Aunt Yule interrupted—
"Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands immediately grabbed me, and I was pulled upstairs.